It’s not that I want her to suffer. I don’t even need her to apologize. I just need to stop seeing her, because every time she breezes past me in her ­thousand-dollar Prada boots, every time I hear her laughter fluttering down the hallway, every time I see her sitting in the courtyard surrounded by ­bug-​­eyed admirers, I want to burn the school down.

“I know that look.” Devin joins me at our lunch spot. “She’s not worth it, Bree.”

It’s true. If Madison were worth it, she would miss me. Or at least pretend to feel bad about the whole thing. Six years of friendship should warrant that. But Madison never looked back after dropping me the summer before freshman year. It didn’t matter that my dad got arrested, that I needed her more than ever before. She disappeared, and I went from laughing with a whole army of friends to hiding in the art room alone.

“I can’t help it,” I say dryly. “I love a public spectacle.”

“Well, I don’t,” says Devin. “This shit is so beneath you.”

I pop open my Tupperware, glare down at the macaroni. The courtyard is a perfect triangle, lush with grass and crammed with marble tables. Madison sits at the table in the center, ­surrounded by her usual group. Her ­silver-​­dyed hair ripples past her pale shoulders as she talks.

“We can go inside, if you want,” says Devin. “We don’t have to sit here staring at her.”

“And miss the big reveal?”

Devin shoots me an irritated look. “Be sarcastic all you want. But you’re doing this to yourself.”

I’m not the only one. The whole school has been watching Madison this week, because this is when the invitations go out. Every year since starting high school, she’s thrown the most expensive, exciting birthday party in the ­city—​­and I have never once been invited.

“I wish people could see her for who she is,” I say.

“And who’s that?”

The word traitor comes to mind. “I don’t know anymore.”

A ­dark-​­haired freshman approaches Madison’s table. Tension tightens through the courtyard, draws up shoulders. The freshman carries a plastic take-out bag with both hands. Collectively, the courtyard stares. It’s like a nature documentary, where the zebra is oblivious to the lion.

“Should we stop her?” Devin covers his face with his hands. “This is so cringey.”

“No way,” I say. “At least now they’re not looking at us.”

This is the worst time of year, when people are most desperate to get on Madison’s good side. To appease her, everyone but Devin acts like I have a rare but deadly ­disease—​­like they’re terrified to approach but still can’t help staring.

When Madison posted a sneak peek of invitations on her finsta story last Tuesday, it sent the school into a frenzy. One word whispered again and again like an incantation: Ametrine. Ametrine, the ­multimillion-dollar virtual world designed by Madison’s parents. As in, I’ve heard celebrities visit Ametrine. Or, I heard Microsoft tried to buy Ametrine. Or, I heard drinking laws don’t apply in Ametrine. It’s the only game that the Pembrokes refuse to sell to the public. A place created for one use and one use only: Madison’s perfect party.

An invitation means more than an amazing night. Receiving one sends ripples through the school’s entire ecosystem. The social order bends around who has one, who doesn’t, who might get one, who almost did but didn’t. It’s all a game of ­proximity—​­how to get closer to Madison . . . and further from me.

Madison and her friends fall silent as the freshman extends the take-out bag.

“I heard you like La Famiglia, in the North End.” Her voice doesn’t tremble. She stands straight as an iron rod. “My dad went into the city this morning and I had him pick this up for you.”

Devin groans into his hands, and I grip his thigh under the table.